Just a Shell of Who I Am
by Volitional
Summary: This is rough & not my best, but I think I wanted to delve more into Peter's character any way I could/can. So this was one way. It's the first chapter -I do plan on continuing and going more in depth. But it's the beginning of a sort of explanation of why he's so violent. It also plays on a quote - "Human reason can excuse any evil." ― Veronica Roth, Divergent.


**Author Notes:** This is my first Divergent fic. It's rough and hastily done; so it's not that great. But I'm working on something for Peter. As much as I dislike him, I want to flesh him out more. After all, we really see what kind of guy he is in Allegiant. So I rewound and am starting from the beginning so maybe we can see a bit of what formed him. It's just my own little theory/twist/take on the character. Enjoy, or don't. 3 _

Every day and every night was the same, with his parents usually gone – working and whatnot. Whenever they came home, it was sporadic and only for so long. The quick kisses he watched them exchange were never enough though, because even as young as he was, Peter knew they didn't _truly_ love each other. They verbally and physically expressed it, oblivious to the fact that he was always lurking, always listening. They reminded one another more often than necessary that it was all a ruse for the child they had – expecting everything to continue, for the façade to never falter. After all, they only had a few more years until the Choosing Ceremony; and by then, regardless of the juvenile's choice, he'd be old enough to take care of himself. Not of course, that he practically didn't already. There had been many times where Peter had stayed at their neighbor's house – an old couple that always had their door open to the boy. Despite bluntly commenting on how they smelled of soured milk as old people sometimes did, they always took him under their roof when his parents weren't there. The old woman with scraggly gray hair like a bunch of bare wires would always clean up his scrapes and bruises. Even when she asked how he got them and he angrily defended himself by claiming they were accidents – she knew. And he knew she knew.

He couldn't hold back the violence that seemed to course through his veins just as easily and fully as the blood that kept him and everyone else alive. But she never inquired further, and he was thankful. Afterwards, he was often rewarded with a snack and some juice. Whenever they took notice of his parents' and their being home, they would walk him over. He would stand between them with a freshly baked cookie and the old lady in her quiet voice that meant business would say, "You don't take good care of your boy. You don't love him enough. I take care of him for you." But in return, his father would say "We know" and his mother, "He'll be fine." Candor took those things seriously – being honest and whatnot. They'd much rather be outright insulted than lied to. Honesty was policy. It was, in their minds, perfection.

But even when he was returned to them, and even when pools of emerald would grow glassy with tears, they wouldn't acknowledge him. If they caught him crying, they'd simply tell him to suck it up; to go do his homework, to be a "big boy." "Tough boys don't cry, Peter" his father would always say. "They don't cry, they're honest, and they certainly don't let others push them around. Buck up and stand on your own two feet or you'll look like a bumbling fool. And don't stutter or make any faults. Be honest, be strong. Not weak."

The fights became more frequent, but he stopped going to the old lady's house. Even when she'd wait outside for him to get home, he'd walk right past her. And when baked treats or a home-cooked meal was left on his doorstep – he'd take it inside and toss it in the garbage. Then, most of the time, he'd break the plates against a wall. Instead of being the victim, Peter became the bully. His soft and angelic features were played to his advantage. While he still appeared innocent, there was a cruelty hidden within behind green eyes. Eyes that were once the gentle but captivating color of gems, which now resembled a dense forest that held far too many secrets.

Without the nurture a child needs, that it yearns for, an absence settles in like a shadow. That shadow grows and grows and grows, feeding off of fear and the lack of hope – of self-worth. That is, until the child in question _becomes that shadow. _In which, they are no longer themselves but a shell. A shell to host the unthinkable terrors that plague the child.

They were always busy. Always too busy for him, for each other, for anyone but the work they dedicated themselves toward. Sometimes, they lied and said they had to work late; but he knew that they were really just off somewhere with friends. It was hard for him to each out and befriend others. Somehow, bruises and blood always wound up in the equation. He couldn't help it. Their pain, their suffering, it eased him. Made him feel whole because they could feel what he felt.

_Because for a few moments, he wasn't alone._


End file.
